[207]
“Well, Fred, what news?” Mr. Bingham asked, as Fred went into his study.
“Better than I could have expected,” Fred said, cheerfully. “The old gentleman, of course, did the savage, but I was extremely penitent, and made an impression on him. Of course he gave me a long lecture upon the heinousness of the offence, but we parted pretty good friends, and I fancy it will all come right in the long run.”
“Perhaps he may seem friends, Fred, but when he dies you may find he has left every penny to Frank.”
“Perhaps so,” Fred said, in a thoughtful voice. “I dare say he would if he were to die to-morrow; but now I have once made my footing good, I think I shall be able to work myself into my old place in time. From some hints he threw out, too, I believe, he is not satisfied with Frank. He's angry, I fancy, because Frank did not marry Alice Heathcote. At any rate, there's a coolness, which makes him the less disposed to be severe with me. No, I think it will all come right in the end.”
There was a silence for a minute or two, Mr. Bingham being greatly surprised at Fred's easy [208] escape, for he remembered how vindictive and unforgiving Captain Bradshaw had been in his wife's case. Presently Fred spoke again.
“Don't you think something could be done to stop that madman's mouth? He has done mischief enough already; but if he is to go about as he threatened, telling this story to every one, it will be a horrible nuisance.”
Mr. Bingham thought for a time, and then shook his head.
“He is very much in earnest, Fred. He meant every word he said. There is no offering him money—it would make him worse.”
Fred thought for a time.
“One could not begin by offering money; still, he's poor, and money must be an object to him. Look here, father, you must see what you can do. You go round to him in the morning, and try and talk him over. Put to him the misery he has caused me in my own family; you can pitch it in strong, you know, about the old lady. Point out that I am punished besides by losing any hope of my uncle's money. Then talk about my wife; say she's very delicate, and that if this comes to her ears, the consequence will be most serious. [209] Ask him if he wishes to destroy the happiness of an innocent creature? Beg him to be content with punishing me, as he has already done. Then, if he gives way at all, offer him a thousand pounds—I would willingly pay that—to leave at once, and go right away, and live quietly somewhere else, where the business will not be known.”
“I am afraid, Fred, it will be of no use. He's been hit too hard.”
“Oh, nonsense, father! You can do it if you take it in hand. Pitch it in strong, you know, about my wife. Tell him that for him to destroy the happiness of an innocent woman, would be as bad as what I have done. Say how devilishly sorry I am. You know the line to take.”
“It's a very unpleasant business, Fred, but if you think any good can come of it, I will try.”
“Thank you,” Fred said, “and be sure to insist upon his leaving his place at once. I don't want to have any risk of his meeting my uncle again, and stirring him up afresh.”
The next morning, accordingly, Mr. Bingham started for New Street. Upon arriving at the shop, he was astonished at finding it closed, and [210] a bill upon the shutter—“This house and shop to be let or sold, enquire of Mr. Thompson, House Agent, Brompton Row.” In spite of this notice, he rang at the bell. There was no answer; and a neighbour, seeing Mr. Bingham standing at the door, came out and volunteered the information that Stephen Walker was gone.
“He went off yesterday at twelve o'clock, with his boxes, in a cab.”
“Am I likely to be able to find out where he has gone to?” Mr. Bingham asked; “I owe him an account for newspapers.”
“I can't say, sir; if anyone knows, it's Mrs. Holl. She's an old friend of his, and has been doing for him lately; she lives in Moor Street, No. 18.”
Mr. Bingham went off to Moor Street. He knocked at the door. Mrs. Holl came to it. On seeing a gentleman, she curtseyed.
“Do you want me, sir? I can't ask you to walk in, for I've a boy here down with fever.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Bingham said; “I called this morning to pay my newsagent, Mr. Walker, a little account I owe him, and I find his place [211] shut up. I was directed to you as the most likely person to tell me of his whereabouts.”
“I know no more, sir, than a new-born child. I only hope he hasn't done anything with his-self. I saw him the day afore yesterday, when he came back after burying his daughter; and when I went yesterday morning he was out. When I went again in the afternoon, I found the bill up, and heard he had gone off with his things. I went to the house people, but they could tell me nothing about it. They said that Mr. Walker, who they knew before, from his having bought the house through them, had come to them, all of a sudden, at nine o'clock. He had told them to let the house at once, or to sell it if they got an offer, and pay the amount into a bank for him. He seemed, they said, a good deal flurried, and in a great hurry. They are to send a cart to-day for his furniture, and are to send it to a sale-room. They are to give notice to his tenants, in the upper part of the house, to leave. The news was all so sudden, it has put me quite in a fluster, like; but I don't think he can be going to do any harm to himself, else he [212] wouldn't have taken his boxes. Do you think so, sir?”
“No, I should think not, Mrs. Holl. He is probably leaving in this sudden and secret way, because he does not like to say good-bye to his friends, and intends to go to some fresh place where no one will know him, or this sad story I have heard of. Good morning, I am much obliged to you for your information.”
So saying, Mr. Bingham went back to his son, expecting that the latter would consider this news to be bad. For it was probable that Stephen Walker had left to carry out his plan of vengeance, and was not improbably gone down to the neighbourhood of some of the works upon which they were engaged. To Mr. Bingham's surprise, Fred was excessively pleased.
“So that he's gone, I am contented. Down in the country I don't care a snap what people may say; but as long as he stayed here, there was always a chance of his meeting my uncle again, or of my uncle going to see him. You see, father, I was obliged to put things in the best light possible, and I should not at all like to have Walker referred to again.”
[213]
“Ah, I see, Fred. I thought you must have made rather a strong case for yourself with the old man, or he would never have come round so easily. When you said you would give a thousand pounds to him to go away at once, I had an idea you must be mightily afraid of his meeting Captain Bradshaw again. Well, Fred, you have saved your thousand pounds, but you'll hear more of him yet before he's done, or I am mistaken.”
“It is a respite at any rate,” Fred said. “If he comes and bothers me in the country, I'll get him shut up as a lunatic. It won't cost a thousand pounds to do that,” and he laughed unpleasantly.
“I shall go back to Cromer by the twelve o'clock train. I shall be up in a week at the latest. I suppose there is nothing particular you want to speak to me about before I go? I have not above a quarter of an hour to spare.”
The quarter of an hour was spent in conversation upon business matters, and then Fred Bingham started again for Cromer, in very much higher spirits than he had felt on his journey up the day before.
[214]
Fred Bingham had not calculated erroneously when he considered Alice Heathcote to be his most dangerous enemy. At first she had been completely stunned by the blow, and upon leaving her uncle, had gone up to her own room had thrown herself upon her bed, too bewildered, too stricken down even to cry, and lay there quiet and white, with her hand pressed to her forehead. “Frank, wicked! Frank, a scoundrel! It could not be, it could not be.” And yet her uncle who knew far more of the world than she did, and who had loved Frank too, seemed to have no doubt, no question upon the subject; nor, as she thought it over and over, did a single ray of hope present itself to her. That she had loved in vain, that he had married another, had been hard to bear, but that was as nothing to this. To know that the man in whom she had put all her faith, and trust, and love, was, after all, a bad, base man, was almost bewildering. If he were false, who could be true? And yet, although she in vain tried to find any solution—any escape—from this dreadful accusation, she did not really believe it. Her instinct seemed to tell her that [215] Frank could never have acted altogether in this way. He might have been wicked and wrong—she feared there could be no doubt about that—but he never could have been so deliberately base as they said. Yet there was but one explanation which could in any way lessen his offence, an explanation which involved a grievous suspicion of another, and that other now lying dead. Still, Alice did not know her, and she believed even now that she knew something of Frank, and, woman like, was disposed to throw the blame anywhere so that the weight upon him might be lightened. She repeated to herself, woman's usual cry under the circumstances, it must have been her fault; Frank may have been wrong, and foolish, and weak, but he never, never, could be so deliberately wicked as they say he is.
“Poor thing!” Alice thought; “it is very sad to think such a thing now she is dead; but she must have been partly to blame, and to shield herself, she has invented this story of Frank promising to marry her at his uncle's death.”
This story Alice elaborated gradually in the intervals of throbbing pain in her temples, and having once elaborated clung to. Not, as she [216] told herself, that it could make any difference to her. He was married, and she should never see him again, for she was certain that her uncle would keep his word. Still, now she might think of him sometimes, with sorrow and regret and pain, but without absolute horror. Her idol was terribly cracked and flawed, indeed, but it had not absolutely fallen to pieces. And having at last persuaded herself that it must be so, she fell asleep just as morning was breaking. For the next three days Alice kept her room, completely prostrated with headache, and feeling altogether unequal to going downstairs to talk upon different matters with her uncle. Still she clung to the belief that the version of the story she had imagined to herself, would turn out to be correct, and that Frank could not have been to blame as her uncle believed. The more she thought of his character ever since she had known him, the more positive she felt of his, at any rate, comparative innocence. Oh, if she could but find out the truth! and to do this there was but one way,—namely, to see Stephen Walker himself. She might then find out what foundation he had for his charges, whether he [217] had absolute proof that Frank had promised to marry his daughter, or whether it was merely the poor girl's own assertion.
It was a strange step, perhaps, for her to take, but Alice rather despised conventionalities, and determined that she would not allow Frank to rest under this dreadful accusation, if she could clear it up. Besides, it would be another fortnight before Frank could arrive, and have an opportunity of clearing himself, and Alice, in her state of restless anxiety, felt that she could not wait for another fortnight. She resolved upon saying nothing to her uncle; so after he had gone to his club, she went up and put on her things, and telling the footman to follow her, started for New Street. Greatly disappointed was she upon finding the shop shut up; but being told that Mrs. Holl of 18, Moor Street, was likely to know Stephen Walker's address, she went there, followed in some wonderment by her attendant.
Mrs. Holl was, as usual, at home, but was unable to give Alice any intelligence as to Stephen Walker.
“Can I come in, Mrs. Holl? I want very much to ask you a question or two.”
[218]
“Yes, ma'am, and welcome; but the place is all in a litter, for it's my washing day, and I've been thrown a little back, for my eldest boy's had a sort of fever. He's better to-day, though, and the doctor says there's nothing fectious in it.”
So saying, Mrs. Holl showed Alice into the room, which was filled with a warm, soapy steam.
“Thank you; I will not sit down,” Alice said, as Mrs. Holl began to polish the seat of one of the chairs with her apron. “I have called to ask you about a very sad and distressing affair. I mean about Mr. Walker's daughter. As you know him well, of course you are aware of the circumstances.”
“Yes, poor young thing!” Mrs. Holl said; “I know as much as anyone knows, except her father. Leastways, we know she's dead and buried.”
“Mrs. Holl, it is a terrible thing to say, but a very great friend of mine—I may almost say a brother—has been accused by Mr. Walker of having been the cause of this. I need not say how distressed we all are, and how anxious to know something of this unfortunate girl.”
[219]
“He must be a very bad man, ma'am, saving your presence; but I don't want to speak badly of anyone. It's not my business, and the Almighty knows how to punish.”
“What I want to ask you, Mrs. Holl—and I am sure, now you know how greatly I am interested in the matter, you will frankly tell me the truth—was this unfortunate girl a good girl? was she always looked upon before this as a good, innocent girl, because we have only heard of it from her father?”
“Yes, miss. Carry Walker was one of the best of girls; one of the kindest, best-hearted, innocentest, brightest girls you'd ever see. Every one spoke well of her. She was one of the best of girls.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Holl,” Alice said, sadly; “that is all I wanted to know. Good morning.”
And Alice, with a very sad heart, went back to Lowndes Square. She had nothing to do now but to wait for Frank's answer, and she could derive even less hope than before from this.